Lonely Days
by Strangerine
Summary: Fourteen years is a long time. One scene for each year Elsa was alone. Cover Art belongs to princekido @ DeviantArt.
1. Eight

Elsa didn't like her room. Without Anna's big bed at the opposite wall, the place felt empty and barren. Empty and big, but also confining. Sometimes Elsa dreamed about the walls closing in on her, squeezing her to a pulp as she screamed for help. Then she would wake up screaming, and mommy and daddy would run in. Daddy would hold a candle and mommy would pull Elsa into her arms, whispering comforts into her ear. Over her mother's shoulder, Elsa would see tiny Anna peek into the room, then be shuttled away by servants. And Elsa would cry.

Late at night, Elsa couldn't sleep. The moonlight illuminated the room, and Elsa felt her eyes close, dragging her into the darkness. But a jolt of fear would make the little girl's heart race, and a layer of frost would creep across the bed, and the floors and walls surrounding it.

Elsa didn't want to sleep. She didn't want to see the images the troll had conjured for her, of blood-red people hurting her for her magic. She didn't want to see Anna, cold and lifeless in her arms. She didn't want to see herself locked in her room, surrounded by angry voices and faces that pulled her hair and clothes. She didn't want the nightmares to come back.

Shivering, the small girl crept out of bed, her toes crunching in the snow on the floor. Elsa walked to the door, undoing the knob with a shaking hand and peeking out of the doorway. Snowflakes followed her as she sneaked across the hall, her bare feet padding on the wood flooring. No servants wandered the halls, and no voices hummed nearby to warn Elsa away. The ice princess reached her destination, opening the door with a creak that made her flinch, and stepping inside the room.

Anna's new bedroom was smaller, and decorated in rosy pink. They'd moved in Anna's old bed, and toys and drawings littered the floor. Elsa crept towards the bed, walking on her tiptoes to make as little sound as possible. The frost had increased, sending a physical chill into the room. The blond froze as Anna tossed in her sleep, pulling the blankets closer to her as ice covered the walls.

Elsa made her way to the bed, and watched as Anna rolled over in her sleep to face her. Mouth open, drooling and her hair a mess, Anna looked deep in slumber. Elsa smiled softly. She outstretched a hand, longing to cup her beloved sister's cheek. As she reached for Anna's face, the frost retracted, and Elsa didn't feel so afraid.

But before she could touch her sister, footsteps wafted in through the open door, and Elsa gasped. The frost returned, stronger, and Elsa raced out of the room, closing the door behind her and hurling herself into her room. No sooner than Elsa shut her own bedroom door and launched into her bed did the footsteps pass by. When the steps faded away, the ice princess relaxed and exhaled.

Elsa looked at her hands and watched, in horror, as frost spread from her hands to her blankets, and then across her bed.

The ice princess began to cry.

* * *

The next morning, as all the servants wondered why puddles of water were all over the hallway floors and in princess Anna's bedroom, Elsa heard her parents arguing again.

Most of the servants were let go after that.


	2. Nine

"The gloves feel itchy, Daddy."

"I know, sweetheart. It's for the best."

Elsa resisted the urge to pick at the fingers of her new, white gloves. Daddy said he'd they'd help her control her powers, but they felt strange. The surfaces of everything she touched felt muted, lacking texture and temperature. And they were not only itchy, but cold too. Of course, Elsa knew the cold came from her and not the gloves, but she didn't like to think about that.

Her father escorted her from his study, his hand on her shoulder as he guided her down the hall and back to her room. Elsa wished she didn't have to go back to her room. She wished her father would keep her out of sight behind when they passed guards and servants in the hall. She wished she didn't have to wear the itchy gloves.

Elsa returned to her room, her father smiling at her as he closed the door. The little girl did not return the smile. She turned away and walked to her bedroom, her hands twitching at her sides. Elsa pulled one of the thicker books off the shelf, grunted as she used all her meager strength to carry the large novel to her bed.

The book landed on the sheets with a heavy thump, and Elsa hoisted herself up on the mattress, leaning over the volume with wide eyes. Small fingers turned the cover and flipped the pages, the girl struggling to read the small text and complex paragraphs.

This was one of the books she had taken, stolen from her father's study late at night. When her mother read to her at night, Elsa would hear stories about princes and princesses, evil kings and queen, dragons and knights and magic. She liked those stories, but she knew they weren't real. They couldn't be, because in those stories the princess got rescued, or fell in love, or defeated the evil villain. In real life, there were no happy endings. Elsa knew this well.

But her father's books, Elsa liked those. She couldn't read the titles of most of them, but she liked deciphering the tiny words printed all across the pages and looking at the pictures. The book she toiled over today had pictures of strange, mechanical devices. She read about engines, and pulleys, and smoke and fire and electric light. She liked seeing how everything fit together and worked to make wonderful things happen. Things like printing books, or making a house warm, or helping farmers grow food.

Elsa couldn't stand the itching any more. She peeled the gloves from her hands and reached for the pages of the book, slicing her finger open in the process. She sucked air in through her teeth and snatched her hand away, squeezing her fingertip to see a drop of red blood appear above the skin. She frowned, put her finger in her mouth and got up off the bed, going to open the door of her bedroom and leave.

She crept down the hall, sucking on her finger and trying to find someone to bandage her. She rounded a corner and was about to call out when someone grabbed her arm in tight, rough grip. Elsa screamed and turned around, a jolt of fear and surprise running through her. She waved her hands in front of her and closed her eyes, flailing as she fought against the unseen stranger. Something burst through the air and cast a cool breeze across her face, and she heard the person holding her give out a cry and release her. Elsa pulled away and opened her eyes.

One of the new servants stood in front of her, a young man watching her with wide, fearful eyes as he clutched his side. Blood began to ooze through his shirt.

Behind her, Elsa heard loud voices and racing footsteps. She felt her mother sweep her up into her arms, pulling her away from the strange man. "Why aren't you wearing your gloves?" her mother whispered.

"I took them off," Elsa replied, beginning to cry as everyone started shouting.

"What are you doing here?"

"Why aren't you in the stable?"

"What were you doing with my daughter?" the last one Elsa identified as her father.

"I-I didn't mean anything," a nervous voice said. "I didn't recognize her, so I grabbed her and...she hit me with something."

A pause. "This man is bleeding. Fetch him a doctor."

The queen started walking back to Elsa's room, with Elsa watching over her mother's shoulder as she saw the man who had grabbed her collapse. Everyone hovered around him, and in the few minutes it took to carry Elsa back to her room, several men dressed as doctors ran over and crouched over the new servant. Soon, Elsa sat in her room, with her mother wrapping up her finger and talking to drown out the shouting in the hallway. Elsa never saw the young man again.

She never took off her gloves again, either.


	3. Ten

Soon after her tenth birthday, Elsa's father decided she needed to learn how to run the kingdom. As his oldest child, she would inherit the throne on her twenty-first birthday, and she would need to know how to lead her people. To his surprise, Elsa already knew a great deal about the intricacies of royal business, having read many books about it.

To Elsa, being responsible came naturally. Bearing the heavy burden of her own abilities made ruling a kingdom child's play. Ironic, really, since she was a child.

Today Elsa and her father sat in the king's study, Elsa's father acting as her private tutor. Elsa knew he didn't trust anyone else to do it. "But Elsa, what if you have a low production rate for the country? What if we couldn't compete with other nations? It's critical that we do so, being an-"

"Economy based nation. Yes father, I know." When had she started calling him father and not daddy? Elsa rattled off something she remembered from a book, something about the balance between taxation and regulation, and freedom of economic growth. The paragraph sounded good, and her father seemed pleased, but Elsa's mind was far away.

Her eyes lingered on the windows on the far wall, letting in a great deal of sunlight and warmth. Her natural cool kept her from feeling overheated or cold, allowing her to flourish in any climate. Elsa liked summer. In the winter, everything slept. The world went to bed, slumbering under sheets made of snow as mirrors of ice reflected the gray sky. The snowflakes made the world look white, and you could feel the life humming beneath the frozen skin of the earth. Alive, but controlled.

But in summer, the world bloomed. Snow melted, birds sang, and people came out of their houses to talk and laugh in the streets. Babies were born, adults fell in love, and no one wept at night for years lost to something they cannot control. No one cried in the summertime.

Elsa knew this, but from a distance. In the summertime, she would look out the window in her bedroom, gently parting the curtains so her pale, wan face could catch a ray of sun. She would smile then, as sounds and smells wafted in from the world below, a world she could never be part of. Sometimes small creatures would come and sit on her windowsill, and Elsa would watch as they pattered about on tiny feet before scurrying away.

One summer, a bird made a nest on her windowsill, and Elsa couldn't sleep in her own bed the rest of the season. She would sleep on the opposite side of the room as the window, curled in a ball and wrapped in her blankets, terrified she'd freeze the baby animals in her sleep. She didn't, but she could have.

As Elsa thought about this, her father watched her with sad eyes. After she'd finished answering his question with an answer recited from a book he'd read himself, she'd retreated into her own world, silent and far beyond his reach. She hadn't noticed he'd stopped speaking, staring out the window of his study with an emotionless expression on her face. Children were not supposed to hide their emotions so well at ten years old. It didn't feel right.

At times like these, the king would go to bed at night with a tight knot in his stomach. His wife would rub his shoulders and reassure them they'd done the best they could do and that was enough, but it _wasn't_. When a little girl can't feel, for fear of freezing her loved ones to icicles, "the best they could do" was not good enough.

Both father and daughter sat like that, lost in their respective contemplations, when Elsa looked from the window to her father with a strange intensity in her eyes. "Father," she said, "why can't I go outside?"

The king jerked, both from being ripped from his thoughts and the surprising question. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, "Someone could see you, Elsa. You wouldn't be safe."

"Then don't let anyone see me," Elsa said, but her father heard the note of disappointment and sadness in her voice. "Just let me walk out in the private gardens. I won't hurt anyone."

The man's heart clenched. "Very well," he said, forcing a smile that he knew Elsa would see through. "We can cordon off one of the gardens be yours, and yours alone. Would you like that?"

A small, innocent smile spread across the girls face. "Yes, Father. I would."


	4. Eleven

With a grunt, the eleven-year old let the heavy books fall to her desk, raising a small cloud of dust. Thin fingers set a piece of paper on the table, and a pen laid down beside it. Elsa opened her dusty books and turned up the lamp on the side of her desk, peering at the small letters to decipher the words. A few minutes reading told her the authors of these books seemed more concerned with promoting their other works than teaching her how to tell a story, but Elsa pressed on.

She'd decided she wanted to write a book, because she liked reading books and thought it would be nice to read her own stories. "And it can't be that hard," she muttered, flipping pages and coughing in the rising dust. "Anybody can tell a story."

But when Elsa sat there, her thick books piled around her as she held her quill and stared into the paper placed in front of her, she began to have more respect for authors. "Where do I start?" she wondered aloud. "Well," she sniffed. "There has to be a hero." Her quill began to write.

_Once upon a time, there was a thirteen-year old girl._

"She's a little older than me," Elsa said to herself. "So she can do more things."

_She was tall, and pretty, and happy._

"That sounds nice."

_And she lived with her happy family, and she had lots of brothers and sisters, and she had lots of friends_.

"Good, but what now?" Elsa paused. "There has to be a villain, or nothings going to happen. Something the little girl has to fight." The girl struggled for inspiration, and her growing frustration make frost climb across the wood of the desk. Even with her gloves on, if she didn't pay attention the ice would start. She scowled at the ice, then turned and began to write._  
_

_And one day, an evil sorceress came to her town and turned everyone to ice.  
_

"Oh, that's good." Elsa liked that. An evil sorceress sounded like a good villain. It occurred to her, while enchanted with her epic tale, that she ought to have a title. But what would be a good title? Going back to her original idea, Elsa turned the paper over and scribbled something else down.

_Snow_.

But snow couldn't be a real title, could it? It didn't sound very good, so Elsa scratched that out and wrote something else instead.

_Snow Man_.

That didn't make any sense, either. Elsa didn't even have any snowmen in her story. Besides, snowmen were nice, and friendly. They liked to give warm hugs, too, or so Elsa had always thought, until-

Elsa shook her head, shook away the bad memories. She ignored the sickness in her stomach and went back to the paper, crossing out and rewriting the title once more.

_Snow Queen_.

Oh, that was good. That could be the name of the evil sorceress, come to attack the tall, pretty girl. Just one more thing.

_The Snow Queen._

Elsa sat back in her chair and smiled. 'The Snow Queen' sounded like a good title. Under the words, Elsa began to draw a picture of the sorceress, making her look as wicked as she could imagine. Sharp, pointed features, long hair and a flowing dress covered the paper. Without thinking, Elsa drew an outstretched arm, covered with a glove. The palm of the Snow Queen began to sprout snowflakes, frost ascending into the air...

Elsa blinked. She dropped the quill and looked down at her hands. Gloved hands. She reached up to touch her face, the delicate. pointed cheekbones and chin. Her dress fell down to her ankles, and her hair hung loose to her shoulders. In horror, Elsa realised she had drawn herself. In her mind, she was the evil snow queen.

The room went very cold. The walls and floors became coated with ice, and the furniture became frozen solid. Shaken and afraid, Elsa slowly stood up and went to empty her toy box. Once the toys sat strewn across the floor, Elsa put her papers and books inside the box, and slid the box under her bed.

Then Elsa laid on her bed and curled up into a ball. She did not move, and she did not cry. If she didn't cry, the frost wouldn't come. And if the frost didn't come, she was Elsa, not the Snow Queen.


	5. Twelve

Elsa lifted her head to the sky and sniffed the air. The smell of flowers and damp grass filled her nose and her mind, making a smile spread across her face. Birds chirped in the blossoming trees around her, and Elsa knelt on the ground to weave a flower garland. She'd read about them in books, seeing them on faeries heads and in grass-weaving manuals, because someone cared enough to write such a thing. And if it existed to read, Elsa read it.

Her thin, nimble fingers pulled the strands of grass through each other, making an interlocked web of grass with multi-colored flowers tied in. Elsa set it down on her head, and took special care to keep in balanced as she stepped along the path. When she passed one of the artificial streams that lived in the castle gardens, she bit her lower lip as a fit of excitement took over her.

Sliding the shoes from her feet, Elsa put her toes into the cool water and hiked up her skirts to step in fully. Chills sparked up her spine as the water rushed past her ankles, and a wide smile spread across her face. She dropped her skirts and began to dance around in the water, letting the water absorb into her dress and splash over her legs while she laughed. She imagined herself as one of the spring faeries in her books, girls with long limbs and pointed faces like her. They wore dresses made of flower petals and had long hair, and possessed wings of gossamer that let them fly high above the trees.

Elsa knelt down and splashed water up into her face, giggling as dragonflies and butterflies flitted around her. The garden at springtime was one of her favorite places to be.

A stick snapped a few few away, and Elsa froze. The forest had gone silent, save for the sound of the bubbling stream. Now, the water felt less comforting and more eerie. Elsa balled her hands into fists, and the water at her feet grew colder. "Who's there?" A pause. No reply. "I am the princess. Reveal yourself."

A heavy foot splashed into the water outside of her peripheral vision, and Elsa screamed. The river froze solid, and Elsa turned around in time to release her feet from the ice and throw a ball of frost at the unseen approacher. She heard a grunt as it made contact, and she staggered backward with both hands out in front of her.

A boy, a year or so older than her, sat on the ice with one foot frozen in the river. Snow had exploded all over his face, leaving pinpricks of red where tiny shards of ice had cut his skin. He had blue eyes and brown hair, and his mouth fell open as he looked at her. Their heads both jerked to the side as shouting and footsteps came from the distance, the royal guards alert by Elsa's shriek. When Elsa looked back, the boy had gone, leaving only a trail of footprints in the sudden layer of snow and a shoe frozen in the river.

Elsa blinked, and turned around to see her flower garland crushed on the ice beneath her. In her panic, it had fallen off and she'd crushed it.

* * *

Elsa found out later that the boy had been one of the assistant gardeners, since then had been let go. With the amount of guards stationed around the gardens increased, Elsa got to go out again a week later.

She returned to the spot where she had first seen the boy. The river had melted again, and the spring animals had resumed their cheerful noises. Elsa was about to leave, not ready to return to the sight of her fright, when she saw something that caught her attention.

Stepping forward, she found a folded piece of paper and a flower garland sat atop a rock, safe from the spray of the river but kept out of sight. Elsa examined the garland. Made from flowers she didn't have in her part of the garden, it looked exotic and fantastical, and when she put it on her head it felt only a little big. Nervous, Elsa read the note. In sloppy, childlike letters, it read:_  
_

_dear princess Elsa,_

_Im sorry I scared you. I thought you were a faery._

_I made this for you to replace your old one_

_From,_

The name at the bottom of the paper looked like it had been written and scratched out several times, before being left unknown. A small smile crept along Elsa's face, and she tucked the note into her dress.

* * *

She kept the garland long after it dried out, pressing the flowers into a book. She kept the book by her bed every night.


	6. Thirteen

Elsa knelt outside her parents' bedroom door, listening to them argue. They did that so often, nowadays. A day wasn't a day unless her parents bickered.

"I've received a letter," her father said, his voice muffled by the door. "One of the western kingdoms wishes to send their sons over to meet Elsa."

"...What did you say?" That was her mother.

A sigh. "I haven't said anything yet. I don't know what to do."

Another pause. "It seems a bit early to be sending suitors, if you ask me."

"She's thirteen, dear. In four years, she'll be old enough to marry. I've seen children in other kingdoms be propositioned at a much younger age by much older pursuers."

"...How old are the sons?"

"Fourteen, sixteen and seventeen. There's three that wish to visit."

"And do they know about...her?"

At this, Elsa's heart skipped a beat. _Her_. What a simple way of conveying so much.

"...No. No one does." A few minutes passed in silence. Her father spoke again. "I'll tell them not to come."

"But what about Elsa? What does she want?" her mother asked.

"I don't know. But if she said she wanted them to come, what do you expect? The girl can't crack a smile for fear of freezing everyone around her. What do you think would happen if she was to fall in love? Would any of these boys be prepared to deal with the consequences if they _did _marry her? Would any of them want to? And think of the _children, _Idun. What if one of them inherited her powers?"

"...But what if they did marry her, knowing her and what she is? What if they loved her and accepted her? Have you thought of that?" Her mother sighed. "It's her life, love. You can't protect her from the world forever."

"...I can try."

The definitive tone in her father's voice said the conversation was over. Elsa crept away from the door and back to her room, tears burning in her eyes.

* * *

Now, a few months later, Elsa was curled in a ball on her bed, clutching her stomach. She hated these stupid cramps. She'd 'become a woman,' as her mother put it, a few months ago, and she despised every second of it.

"What the point of having a period," she'd said, "if I'm not going to have children?"

Her mother had seemed both saddened and surprised. "What do you mean, Elsa? You don't want children?"

At this, the teenage girl flushed. "Well, I just...never mind."

The conversation of her parents still ached in her mind, following her around day in, day out, torturing her with the cruel reality of her situation. She wondered, in the back of her mind, if her mother understood what she could not say. Her fear, the perpetual fear of being unloved and childless. She was the heir of a kingdom, but unable have heirs of her own. Elsa could never marry or have her own child. And that knowledge pained her beyond words.

But she never dared voice these concerns aloud. She never said anything of her true feelings. Every thought in her mind, every idea and feeling and desire was all stifled inside her. She wore a perpetual mask, blue eyes cold and unrevealing, her hands carefully gloved and clasped in front of her. If you watched her, she never brushed against anything. She never tripped, never fell, never looked anywhere but straight out in front of her. Every move she made was carefully calculated.

Another wave of pain inside her core made the girl groan. She remained very still on her bed. The curtains had been closed, no natural light filling the room so as to distract her. If she didn't move, she didn't hurt nearly so much.

A soft knock at the door made her flinch. "Who is it?" she croaked.

"Your mother," came the gentle reply. The queen opened the door and walked in, closing the door behind her and being careful to avoid the ice that covered the floor. She held a steaming mug in each hand. "I thought you could use some company."

Elsa sat up, her mother taking a seat beside her on the bed and handing her a cup. Elsa gave a happy sigh. "Hot chocolate," she murmured, and lifted the drink to her lips. "With marshmallows."

Her mother stroked her hair as the girl drank, the warm liquid soothing her and making the ice around them disappear. "Oh, Elsa," the queen thought. "I love you, so much. If only things were different..."


	7. Fourteen

In recent months, Elsa had taken up the hobby of sewing. Sometimes she would make little cross-stitch crafts, or she would embroider small patterns on various fabrics, or she would sew different things together in an attempt to make her own clothes. The latter never worked out very well, her designs always too loose on her slender frame.

She had this idea in mind, of this perfect dress. She never told anyone about it, of course, but that went without saying. In her teenage years she retracted even further into herself, pulling away even from her parents. But this dress, this dress felt magical to her. In her own mind, she put it together: light blue sleeves, and a sparkling dark blue skirt. It would shimmer like frost in starlight. And a long, gossamer cape would flow out behind her, making her look regal and beautiful.

In her mind, the Elsa wearing that dress looked much nicer than the skinny, gawky girl she was now. She had a plethora of things she'd, ah, _borrowed_ from her mother's dressing room, powders and lotions to hide up the ugly marks on her face. She kept her skin clean and fresh, as always, but it never seemed to scare away the nasty red bumps that showed up all over her. Not to mention the awful bruises she got from bumping into everything. Overnight, her hips, shoulders and breasts had grown two inches, making her feel awkward and too big for herself. It's hard to look perfect and not reveal any emotion when you're constantly crashing into things.

But still, she dreamed about her perfect dress. One day, she swore to make it, if not wear it. It's one thing to dream up a lovely outfit, and another thing entirely to wear it. In public. In front of people. The young girl shuddered at the thought.

She shifted in her chair and looked out the window. She'd pulled up a chair for the best view of the gardens at wintertime. A blanket of snow covered everything, the sky blue and cloudy above them. Smoke from all the chimneys in the city rose high into the heavens, little spirals of black decorating the air. Children dressed in thick clothes ran across the streets, following their friends and exchanging shots of snowballs before their mothers pinched them by their ears and scolded them for being so rowdy. Elsa could not hear them, of course, but she knew that's what they were saying.

Elsa sighed and returned to her sewing. She'd made this little project out of guilt, more than anything, and she didn't feel it was very good. _Shoddy craftsmanship, _she told herself, _that's what_ _it is_. But the pessimist in her couldn't silence the small feeling of pride she had.

In the sunlight, the large magenta blanket looked lovely. The edges had all been sown and tucked into swirling patterns, almost like long braids running the length of the fabric. Simple, but pleasant. Ever since Elsa had overheard the servants talking about Anna being cold at night, she'd blamed herself for the problem, and devoted herself to making this.

She crept out of her bedroom and stepped along the hallway, walking down the familiar pathways to her sister's bedroom. Anna was out, busy in the other side of the building with her tutor. Elsa had finished her lessons earlier that morning, and it gave her the chance to finish her small project.

The door creaked open and Elsa stepped inside the room. With a flourish, she tossed the blanket over her sisters bed and noticed, with not a small amount of pride, that the color matched the rest of the room. Content with her creation, Elsa turned and left the room, hoping against hope her sister would like it. Deep in her heart, she wished she could see Anna's face when she first saw the blanket, but she knew it was impossible.

Still, though. Perhaps she would like it.

* * *

Teenage Elsa didn't know, then, that the magenta blanket would become a favourite of Anna's. Anna carried it around with her everywhere, despite it's size, tying it around her neck and sweeping down the banisters of the stairs like she was flying. And later, when she got much older and she grew too large for it, it became her cape. A clasp was added to the head of it, and she wore it often.

But that's a story for another time.


	8. Fifteen

It's the middle of summer. Elsa is curled up on her bed, listening to the sounds of the world outside her window. Mother and Father have already stopped by to say hello, standing awkwardly in the doorway as they wish her a happy birthday. The fifteen-year-old wonders if they stay away from her because she's asked them to, or because they've given up trying to get close. Perhaps a bit of both.

She's had so many painful episodes now, when they come in and try to talk to her, but every time she tries to speak honestly, long held-in tears come to the surface and spill over. She can't reveal any part of her true self unless she wants to dissolve into an emotional puddle, so she ends up shouting and screaming animal cries for them to leave, except she desperately wants them to stay. She wants them to hold her and tell her everything is going to be all right.

Which is why it hurts so much when they pull away and leave. Why now, when they did not even touch her when they wished her a happy birthday, her heart is breaking.

Elsa knows she's being unreasonable. She can't tell people to go away and then expect them to stay. But her whole life has been an unreasonable mess, and she feels somewhat justified in feeling this way. But at the same time, she doesn't, because it is her duty to bear this burden. Alone. The conflict rises inside of her, and she cries.

But she claps a hand over her mouth when soft footsteps pad to in front of her bedroom door. "Elsa?" comes a young voice. Anna is twelve now, but she sounds as childish and innocent as ever. "Happy birthday."

A small box slides under Elsa's bedroom door. "I...I know you didn't get anything. Mum and Dad told me not to try and talk to you, but...but it's your birthday. I wanted to say hello." A pause. "They're chocolates! I know you like chocolates. I think. Everybody likes chocolates, don't they? I do. Mum won't let me eat them, most of the time, but I take some from her stash when she's not looking. I don't like the bitter kind, though. I like the sweet chocolates. They go good with milk. Have you ever tried goat milk, Elsa? One of the servants let me taste it once. It's like cow milk, but different. I don't know."

As Anna rambles on, Elsa slowly rises from her bed and kneels in front of her door. Anna's voice is so close, now. The shadow under the door tells Elsa that Anna is sitting just opposite of her, and if the door weren't there they would be facing each other. Silent tears drip down the older girls cheeks as Anna keeps talking. "I like to go look at the pictures in the gallery. Have you ever been to the gallery, Elsa? I like to pretend I'm one of the people in the pictures. Like they're all my friends and I get to have big parties with them. I don't really understand the pictures that are just, like, bowls of fruit, though. Those ones are weird."

A few seconds pass, and Elsa has both hands over her mouth to keep the sobs in. "Soooo," Anna says at last. "I better go. Mum and Dad won't like it if they find me here." Another pause. "Happy birthday, Elsa."

And then she's gone, her footsteps fading away until they are inaudible. Elsa takes a tear-stained hand and picks up the box of chocolates. She doesn't sniff it, doesn't open it, but carries it back to her bed. She wraps in in her arms and presses it to her cheek. "Thank you, Anna," she whispers. "I love you."


	9. Sixteen

She's sitting on a bench in one of her gardens, reading a book in the sunlight. The snow glimmers around her, her breath visible in the cool air. But the cold does not affect her skin, and since her cheeks and nose are not rosy pink Elsa looks thin and pale among the frost.

She jerks her head up at the sound of people. A startling and unusual sound. It is _her _garden, after all. No one else is allowed in. Elsa swallows, hard, and stands on her tiptoes to place her book carefully in the branches of a nearby tree, away from the snow. Then, against her better judgement, she creeps towards the sounds.

"Are you sure we'll be safe here?" a male voice asks. His voice is deep, and he sounds winded. Excited. Elsa balls her gloved hands into fists.

"Of course we will," chirps another winded voice. "These gardens are private, for some reason. My father never allows anyone to go in here."

Elsa freezes. That is _Anna's _voice. What is she doing here, of all places?

"Good." Then there is silence. Elsa forces herself to peer through the trees, and that is when her heart stops. Anna is standing in _her _gardens, with a _boy. _Some boy, who is currently sticking his tongue down Anna's throat. Elsa is stunned, and stands in full view of them as emotions tumble through her shocked mind.

It is shameful, scandalous, and nauseating, yes. A princess, especially a thirteen-year-old one, should not be running off into forbidden gardens to kiss boys. It is insanely foolish. A thousand senarios, all terrible, run through Elsa's mind. The boy is slightly younger than Elsa, but his face is obscured, so she gets no real look at his features.

And yet, the way Anna wraps her arms around his neck and returns the kiss makes Elsa believe this is not her first time with this boy. Against her will, cool jealousy finds its way into her lungs and constricts her breath. Elsa is three years older than Anna, and has never kissed nor fallen in love with another person in her life.

Familial love, maybe. It is hard to love one's parents when they do not speak to you, do not touch you or hug you or soothe you in your sadness. And she loves Anna, she knows that much. Elsa has not seen Anna in a very long time. She is bigger, taller, bustier. Shorter than Elsa, yes, but there is a fullness to her frame that comes from sliding down staircase banisters, running down hallways, laughing and playing that Elsa has never had. Terrible sorrow joins the jealousy in her heart.

All this happens in a few torturous seconds. Then the boy looks up and sees Elsa standing there. A blush rises to her cheeks, and she turns to run. The boy calls out after her, and the older girl begins to panic. She darts down the garden paths, rising snowfalls behind her to cover her tracks, fresh icicles forming on the tree branches around her as her heart races.

But she knows this garden better than they do, and she finds cover in a hiding place behind one of the frozen creeks. She tries to keep her breaths shallow and quiet as the boy and Anna approach where they had last saw her. "Not so secret after all, huh," the boy chuckles.

"I'm sorry," Anna says, and even closing her eyes Elsa can see her biting her lower lip and looking pitiful, much as she did when she was a little girl. "I thought..."

"No, it's fine." The smack of a kiss rings through the air, and Elsa flinches. "We'll just find somewhere else to..."

"To kiss?" Anna's reply sounds so innocent, and Elsa again feels a wave of both protectiveness and jealousy. But she cannot figure out which emotion is stronger.

The pair laugh and walk away, and when the forest makes its wintertime sounds once more, Elsa stands on shaking legs, retrieves her book from the tree, and returns to her room.

* * *

Elsa pulls few strings, leaving notes for ther servants here and there and using her free access to most corners of the castle to find out where Anna and her little boyfriend sneak away to, and arranges for someone to walk in on them during an inopportune moment. Father forbids them to see one another, and that is that.

In the following days, when Elsa hears Anna sobbing in her bedroom across the hall, guilt poisons her heart. She tells herself it was the desire to protect her sister's virtue that motivated her, that she only set the stage and allowed Father to catch them and punish them as he saw fit. But she knows jealousy took a hand in her actions.

At least Elsa is not the only one who cries at night, now.


	10. Seventeen

Elsa was lost in her own world, the nib of her pen scratching across the page as words flowed from her mind down to her paper. Black blemishes marred her small, porcelain hands, and a mark or two of ink colored her face and stray strands of hair. But her printed words lay smudgeless. Her face had no expression, and her hands were bare with her gloves sitting an arm's reach away.

With a satisfied smile, she leaned back and placed a lock of hair behind one ear. She wrote the title of the story on the top piece of paper; _The Princess and the Pea. _She bound the papers together and put the manuscript with the others, who all bore similar titles, like _Thumbelina, The Little Mermaid, _and _The Emperor's New Clothes. _She blew gently on the ink to help it dry.

She'd kept up writing as a hobby most of her life. A few stories sat in a box under her bed, stories she'd started but didn't want to finish for whatever reasons, but most of the time she wrote fairytales. Fantastical stories, not always happy, but having magic and music and all kinds of wondrous things. The sound of writing soothed her. Sometimes writing sounded angry, with a tense hand gripping the utensil as jagged letters ripped across the page. Other times it sounded sad, with teardrops falling from a pair of reddened eyes and staining the paper as trembling hands etched out unsteady alphabets.

And sometimes it wasn't anything but the writing. Sometimes, the act of translating your heart to your ink made all the feelings go away. That's why Elsa didn't like to wear gloves when she wrote. It helped the emotion, the thoughts and feelings she kept cooped up inside herself flow that much better. She liked touching the pen, liked feeling the paper under her skin, liked watching universes blossom in between the lines of text. Because in that moment, she wasn't Elsa. She wasn't angry, or sad, or tormented or so dreadfully lonely. When she wrote a story, she found a place where she could be someone else. Anyone else.

She smiled and took her pile of papers, placing it under a loose floorboard. She jumped when the boom of a clock rang out, sounding it's bells six times to announce it was time for dinner. She stood and went to her desk, retrieving her gloves and placing them back over her fingers. Her hands, open to the air for a brief moment, were covered up and silence. The old feeling of numbness, of having her sense of touch stifled made a deep sigh leave her.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. How long had she been sitting at that desk? And she hadn't slept well last night, either. She started walking to her bedroom door but stopped halfway there, leaning against her bed as her eyes fluttered shut. Her mind went quiet as drowsiness took her, and she collapsed on the mattress, asleep.

* * *

Elsa didn't see the queen, her hair now greyed with age, place a silver tray on Elsa's beside table. The platter had a cup of tea and a bowl of steaming soup, with some meat and veg on the side. Elsa's mother brushed an ink-stained hair from the girl's face, and cleaned some of the ink splatters on her cheek. With a smile, Mother kissed Elsa's forehead and drew the blankets up over her before departing the room and leaving her eldest daughter to rest peacefully.

The tea and soup would keep warm a little while longer.


	11. Eighteen

Elsa sat on her bed, pale hands running through her hair as she smoothed out the waves created by her braid. She took a deep, shaking breath and tried to snuggle under the covers. She felt like she couldn't get warm, couldn't dispel a terrible cold that had passed over her ever since her parents had announced they'd be leaving for two weeks.

They were leaving her. The nightmare that had plagued Elsa for years was now coming true; they were abandoning her, running away so she would be left alone to rule a kingdom she'd never even seen, never been a part of. What was she to do? What if some great emergency happened? If something went horribly wrong and she was the only one who could save Arendelle?

And Elsa couldn't save anything.

Heat rose behind her eyelids and choked her throat, making her curl up into a ball underneath her sheets. She jerked when a faint knock came at the door. She didn't say a word, but watched as the door unlocked and an uncertain face peek in. "Elsa?"

Elsa struggled to compose herself. "Yes, Father?"

The King of Arendelle stepped inside. His hair, once a warm orange, had long faded and been speckled with silver. Dark shadows lingered under his eyes, shadows not caused by the dim light. He smiled, but even that looked tired. The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him and approaching until he sat at the end of Elsa's bed.

Elsa tried to ignore the discomfort of having someone else in her room. "I don't mean to interrupt," her father said, "but I just wanted to say goodnight."

Elsa's father hadn't visited her before bed in almost nine years. The girl swallowed and felt her body tighten up under her father's gentle gaze. "And?"

The weary smile on the King's face faded, replaced by a look of terrible sadness. "Can't a man say goodnight to his nearly-grown daughter before he goes on a trip?" He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. A painful second passed, before he looked back up and retrieved his forced smile. "Good night, Elsa."

He pressed his lips to her forehead and made as if to go, when Elsa jerked up and grabbed his hand with her own bare one. "Wait!" she exclaimed, startling both of them. "Please don't go," she begged, her grip tightening on his hand. "Please, Daddy."

The King looked shocked, stunned into silence by his daughter touch and plead. He swallowed, and his eyes flickered from his daughter's palm on his own to Elsa's wide eyes. He swallowed, knelt down by Elsa's bed and pressed the girl's knuckles to his lips.

"My darling," he whispered, "your mother and I have no choice. For ten years we've isolated ourselves from the rest of the world, and this is a trip we cannot afford to avoid. It's just two weeks, my love. We'll be back soon, just in time for your birthday."

_Because of me, _Elsa thought. _Because I have to make you hide from everything._

The girl nodded, slowly, and felt tears start to form in her eyes. She let her hand fall from her father's grip, and she rolled over, her back to him. "Good night, Father."

Silent tears started to roll down her cheeks, but she remained steadfast as her father rose from his knees and went to leave. Just before he closed the door on his way out, he paused. "I love you, Elsa."

A few seconds passed, and he shut and locked the door. His footsteps faded away into the night.

"I love you too, Daddy," Elsa whispered.


	12. Nineteen

It took a week and a half for the news to reach Arendelle. A few days passed during the journey, until the storm hit. They found the bodies, washed up on the shores of the intended destination. Then, a few more days for messengers to bring back the news.

The King and Queen of Arendelle were dead.

The funeral is held a week later.

* * *

Elsa clasped her hands in front of her. Her black veil disguised her face, kept her visage and line of sight hidden from everyone else. Her ivory gloves had been traded in for black silk. Her hair was up and out of the way, pinned to the back of her head in a tight bun. She trembled, but she did not cry.

She was standing off to the side, out of everyone's view. She doubted if anyone knew who she was. Beside the tree, she lingered, watching the coffins of her parents descend into the ground, the hallowed area where all past monarchs of Arendelle went. Their pale, lifeless faces can be seen at the head of the coffins, their eyes shut and hands folded in front of them. Elsa heard Anna's pained sobs pierce the air, the hacking and wheezing as she cried faster than she could breathe.

Elsa does not cry.

A priest, a small man in white that contrasts with the black clothing of the mourners, stood up and began to speak. He talked of how King Agdar and Queen Idun were great and benevolent rulers, how their reign was one of peace, and how they were loved by their subjects and by their beautiful daughters.

He pauses, now, to look out into the crowd. Anna is a mess, her red hair stringy and untamed, her face and eyes red from crying, streams of tears and snot descending from her eyes and nose. Elsa is nowhere to be seen, concealed behind her veil as she stands beside her tree. The priest sighs, and goes on.

Soon, he finishes his speech and his prayer, and the coffins are closed. The mourners stand and begin to shuffle about. There are no courtiers here. There are no visiting monarchs, wishing the family members peace and healing after their great loss. Only servants, elderly and young alike. They are the only ones who came.

There will be an announcement, of course, a public period of mourning, but the private funeral is quiet. Silent.

Lonely.

The mourners disperse, returning to their posts with few words said among them. Anna is taken gently by the hand and guided back to the castle, walking a few steps before tearing herself away and running sobbing into the building alone. The gravediggers begin piling dirt on the coffins. Elsa stays, still concealed by her veil.

Elsa kneels in front of the graves. There are still no tears in her eyes. She can conjure nothing but numbness in her heart. There are no emotions left to feel, no tears left to weep, no more sobs that rack her shoulders and leave her feeling sore and spent. She did all that when the letter came.

"Miss?" The gravedigger has a deep, gravelly voice. It sounds unaccustomed to kindness, but the older man manages it. "I'd hate to get dirt on you, luv. Best take a step back, if you please." Elsa does not respond. "Miss?"

"Leave."

The man pauses. His partner does the same. "What?"

"I said leave." She stands, but her eyes stay fixated on the coffins. Her voice has an authority to it she's never used before. "Leave and do not return to this place."

The men glance at each other, but something tells them to do as the mysterious woman says. When their steps disappear into the forest and she is alone, Elsa picks up one of the shovels and begins to finish the job. With slow, calculated movements, dirt piles up on the coffins.

It was mid-afternoon when the funeral ended. It is almost sundown when Elsa is finished covering the graves. She stops, takes a breath, and wipes sweat from her eyes. The shovel slips from her hands and she takes a step back.

Then she slowly peels her gloves from her skin, raises her hands and closes her eyes.

Softly at first, then faster, frost ascends from her fingertips and into the air. It starts to snow. Swirling patterns of ice fly through the air, decorating the trees and freezing the tombstones that mark the resting places of Elsa's parents. Soon, a small patch of the graveyard is covered in snow and frost. It is cold, dark, and morbidly beautiful.

Today is her birthday, the day her parents were supposed to be home for. Not just home for; alive for. Today, Elsa is nineteen, and she is the new Queen of Arendelle.

The witch, the woman, and the orphan drops her hands and falls to her knees. Now, she is able to weep.


	13. Twenty

The castle seems quieter, now. Even a year later a heavy silence hangs over the building, whispering _hush, hush _when anyone dares to speak. If one were to break the silence, to pierce the thick and painful air as if to re-open a scar, everyone fears the consequences.

The consequences being Elsa.

All it takes is one word. A mutter of the ghost princess, the girl broken by her parents' death. A whisper of how perhaps the throne should go to the younger heir. A breath of how perhaps Arendelle is a doomed kingdom. These thoughts hum in the minds of the citizens, of the servants, of those who see the looming silhouette of the palace, it's once bright and welcoming towers now dark and frightening.

All it takes is a word.

She is there, always watching. A guard, speaking lowly to his partner as they stand in front of the castle gates, may find a handwritten slip on his bunk that tells him his employment has been terminated. A scullery maid, gossiping with her friends in the kitchen, may be told to find work elsewhere. Slowly, slowly the castle becomes more and more desolate, until only the most careful remain.

No one knows her face. No one has ever seen her, except the rare few who dare to venture into her bedroom to retrieve her laundry, deliver food and clean her chamber pots. "She creates waste," a butler snorts, "and she eats. So she must be alive, at least."

She does not feel alive.

She indeed feels like a spirit. Haunting the hallways of her family home, never seen, never known. She rarely speaks, now. She has no reason to. She writes so rarely, now. She never has the inspiration. She does not dream of fantastical things, things she puts to ink and paper that soothe her broken heart. Only nightmares. Nightmares of storms, screaming, of blood and death and the weeping faces of her parents as they succumb to the depths of the sea.

The servants don't know how they are paid. It feels almost supernatural. They clean, they dust, they make the meals, and food appears in envelopes on their beds. There is a council, a group of advisors supposedly for Queen Elsa. This council runs Arendelle now. Perhaps it is they who puts the money in the envelopes. But then they examine the careful, measured handwriting on the paper and shiver as they imagine a spectral girl writing it.

The servants are told not to interact with the ginger girl, except when absolutely needed. Anna has a maid-servant and a tutor. That is all.

Elsa hears Anna wandering the gallery sometimes, talking to the ornate paintings as if they were people. It has been so many years since Elsa has gotten a good look at her face, that when she hears Anna's voice she jerks away, going down the opposite hallway until her youthful song fades into the distance and Elsa may be alone.

Because alone is all she has.

She dreads the day when she becomes queen, in her own right. For now she is just heir-apparent, waiting until she comes of age. One day, she will have to show her face to the light, to view her citizens not from a hidden window but head-on. She will take on the responsibilities of her people, will interact with foreign diplomats, will be courted for her hand in marriage and asked to lead parades and kiss babies and _touch. _

The thing she fears most is to _touch. _But it's not like she has a choice.

Right?


	14. Twenty-one

It is today.

The gloves constrict poised fingers. Her hands are trembling, and she clasps them together in a desperate effort to remain composed. Her very soul recoils at the great, looming doors standing before her. Through the aged wood, she hears the muffled sounds of laughter, music, and dancing feet gliding across a freshly cleaned floor.

Elsa knows that room. She has walked the width and breadth of it a thousand times, at least. This room has not been used in thirteen years. And now, after enduring her coronation, she must go and greet many, many guests.

Shivers run down her spine. Her stomach bubbles, threatening to rise up and regurgitate her last meal. Two guards stand near, their hands on the door handles and looking at her expectantly. Elsa takes a deep breath.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

The practice is familiar, and the breathing calms her. With long-honed skill, she composes her face, just like she did in the mirror so many hours ago. She makes herself the picture of royalty. She is calm, regal, and perfect. Elsa purses her lips and nods at the guards. They share a glance and swing open the door.

The sheer beauty of it all almost shatters her.

There is so much _color_. And food, and music, and laughter. She has never seen such things, not since after Anna was born, and that was very long ago. Men and women alike are wearing elaborate and gorgeous clothing, delectable delights are being served across several tables near the back, and there is a troupe of musicians sitting on a raised platform playing a medley of dancing music.

And when everyone sees her, they stop.

Someone _ahems _and they all take elaborate bows. A gentlemen standing next to a wooden throne stretches an arm out towards her. "Queen Elsa of Arendelle!"

Elsa is stunned, but she knows what to do. Plastering a rusty but polite smile on her face, she steps to the middle of the stage and stops in front of her chair, looking down on her guests. But then the man speaks again and Elsa nearly faints.

"And Princess Anna of Arendelle!"

Elsa keeps her eyes forward and her fake smile on as a bead of sweat runs down her forehead. In her peripheral vision, she sees Anna run out from behind a curtain in an olive-green dress, smoothing back her hair with one hand. Her face is still not clear. She babbles off a hello and stands awkwardly at the base of the stage, until the announcer gently moves her to stand at Elsa's right.

The crowd applauds and turns away, going back to their eating and dancing.

Elsa turns her head, just enough, and sees the profile of Anna's features. Red hair, pinned behind her head. Delicate pale shoulders, a pointed nose, and one hand awkwardly cupping the side of her face. Elsa sees Anna glance over at her, not quite sure what to say.

There is this..._odd _mix of feelings, then, as Elsa observes Anna for a split second. Part-adoration, part-shock, part-protectiveness and part-amusement. The protectiveness and amusement win out. "Hello," Elsa says quietly.

Anna jerks over and looks at her, the hand on her face going to her chest. "Hi? Hi _me? _Oh! Uh, hi." Seemingly embarrassed with her reply, Anna turns away and stares down at the floor, her shoulders hunched and her hands clasped in front of her.

Elsa watches Anna with a relaxed gaze. You'd think, after so many lonely years, that seeing Anna like this might send her into shock. But it felt like...it felt normal. For the first time in forever, it felt like Elsa was just an indulgent big sister, and Anna was a somewhat awkward and excitable younger sister. "You look beautiful," Elsa said.

"Thank you!" Anna replied, her shoulders relaxing some as she turned to look back at her sister. "I mean, you looker beautiful-er, I mean, not full-er, you don't look full-_er _but more, more beautiful."

Elsa chuckled, the first time she'd laughed in _god knows _how long, and she smiled, for real this time. "Thank you." Another millisecond passes as they readjust, trying to keep the flow of conversation going. "So," Elsa breathes. "This is what a party looks like."

Anna shifts before giving Elsa sort of half-glance. "It's warmer than I thought," she says, and swallows.

Elsa sniffs the air. "What's that amazing smell?" she asks, her eyes widening.

Then, in unison they sniff the air and look at each other. "_Chocolate,_" they sigh, and giggle. There is a moment when Elsa treasures the feeling of laughter, of giggling with her sister as if their lives have been normal for the past thirteen years. Anna opens her mouth to say something when the announcer approaches.

"Your Majesty," the man says, "The Duke of Weaseltown."

"It's _Weselto__n," _the introduced gentlemen snaps. Then the Duke attempts to ask Elsa for a dance, which she diverts over to Anna with a whispered, "Sorry."

Elsa looks over the party from her position on the stage, and is aware of a strange and growing warmth in her chest. The sight of Anna laughing and dancing, of the people enjoying themselves, and the thick and creamy scent of chocolate in the air, Elsa almost feels _happy. _She looks down and smiles to herself. Maybe her parents would be proud of her, if they were looking down from the afterlife this very moment. Maybe Elsa had a chance to be happy.

Maybe she doesn't have to be the Snow Queen.


End file.
